


Whiskey Burn

by TrickyJerseyGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley Being Crowley, Crowley Not Being an Asshole, Crowley being sexy, Crowley is charming, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Heterosexuality, Nice Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-04 10:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10989402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrickyJerseyGirl/pseuds/TrickyJerseyGirl
Summary: Crowley is never a good idea. But he's definitely a good time.





	1. At the Bar

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Crowley fic, because I can't deal with the finale. Please comment so I know to continue this story.

The first time it happened was in a bar.

I was sitting alone, a pile of paperwork in front of me and a glass whiskey to my right. The paperwork, and all it represented, was defeating me. Divorce documents. Voluntary foreclosure forms. Taxes. All the complicated detritus of a life fallen to shit, in triplicate, and requiring a notary. 

It was my third whiskey.

I barely noticed when he sat down. I registered his voice when he spoke, deep and British and somehow dripping with charm despite the simplicity of his words: “Scotch on the rocks. You don't have what I drink so just give me the best this delightful little establishment has to offer."

I glanced over when I heard him. A voice like that is not something you expect to hear in a place like this. The figure match the boys, if definitely not the surroundings. Dark hair, dark eyes, a handsome face with a smirk on it. He was dressed in a dark suit with a deep red tie. I couldn't help choking back a laugh at that. This was a blue-collar bar, the kind of place I rarely even found myself in. The bartender handed him his drink. He took a sip, grimaced, and said, "Vile. Thank you." He left a hefty tip.

He caught me looking. His smirk got a little more mischievous, a little... dirty. He pointed to his drink, flicked his eyes to my mostly-empty glass, and said, "Another?”

Everything about him was a bad idea. "Sure.”

When my drink was served, he held up his glass and said, “To better whiskey.”

I clinked my glass against his, then drank. It was terrible but it got the job done. “What’s your preference, then?” I asked.

“Craig,” he said. “Thirty year.”

I nodded. “Bit malty for my taste. I prefer Glenmorangie Nectar D’or, though I’ll settle for a Balvenie 17 Madeira.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll settle for a three hundred dollar bottle. How noble. And yet here you sit, drinking swill with your paperwork. May I?” 

I shrugged. “You a lawyer?”

He began reading through the papers. “Broker,” he said. “Very familiar with contracts of all sorts. No, this will never do.” He picked up a pen and made some marks on my divorce agreement.

I reached for the papers. “Hey, what do you…”

He grabbed my wrist, stopping me. His hand was astonishingly warm and though his grip was gentle, it was clear he was strong. He didn’t look up from the papers. “Your lawyer should be shot. Let me, please. You’ll be far better off.”

Oh, why the fuck not. Not like it could get any worse. I shook free of his grip. “Fine, go right ahead.”

He tsked as he made notes. “Bloody hell, I may have your lawyer shot myself. Tell me, what does your soon-to-be ex-husband do?”

“Neurosurgery,” I said.

He looked up. “Pardon?”

Christ, he was handsome. Maybe the whiskey was helping a little but he really was terribly, terribly attractive. And that voice, with the British accent and that rough, deep timbre… When he spoke, I felt it right between my legs. “Neurosurgery,” I repeated. “He’s a neurosurgeon. We met at a medical conference.”

“Meaning you’re also a…”

I shook my head. “No. I’m a forensic pathologist. Research mostly. I was lecturing on brain parasites and spongiforms when we met.”

“For an intelligent woman, this is an astonishingly stupid divorce agreement. To say nothing of..” He ruffled through the other papers. “Foreclosure? No. Absolutely not. A moment, please.”

He pulled out his phone and hit a number. “Frederick...Send Gerald now, and while I talk to him, get me all you can on a Doctor Andrew… This is a ridiculous surname.”

I snorted into my drink. He was right. I couldn’t wait to rid myself of it. I ordered two more drinks and rested my chin in my hand, watching him talk and make notes on my papers, wondering who Gerald was.

He disconnected the call. “More swill. Thank you. I’ve a friend stopping by. An attorney, actually, bit of a shark. He’ll be taking your papers and refiling. You’re going to be a wealthy woman.”

I held up my hands. “I just want it over and done with,..”

“And rightly so.” He reached for one of my hands and held it. His other hand massaged my fingers and halfway up my arm, and those dark eyes bored right into me. “But won’t it be nice to also buy a case or two of that 17-year Madeira cask to celebrate?”

“I already paid…” I began, trying not to be lulled by the slow, soft pressure of his hand and that velvety voice.

“Gerald owes me a favor,” he said. “And I rather fancy the idea of saving a damsel in distress. Call it kismet, love. Isn’t it about time things started going your way?” 

He was right. It damn well was. What did I have to lose? If it was all bullshit, I could just get new copies of the old papers and follow the original plan. But the idea of putting Andrew through the wringer, the idea of someone else doing it for me while I just sat back and watched sounded fantastic. Why not let a stranger lend a hand? A warm, talented hand. I shivered. “All right,” I said. “Then maybe I’ll have a shot at my life coming together.”

He let go my hand and got up from his seat. He leaned in close to my ear, his breath hot against my skin, and murmured, “Let it come apart instead, pet. Excuse me.”

My mouth was dry as I watched him walk away. I had more whiskey, a good strong swallow before I followed him.

The door to the single bathroom was unlocked. He was leaning casually against the wall when I came in, locking the door behind me. “Hello, lovely,” he said, and stepped toward me. 

His mouth tasted like the whiskey this bar couldn’t afford to serve. He fucked me against the wall and I came so hard, I saw stars. It wasn’t until I went home later, new lawyer’s info in my pocket, that I realized I didn’t know his name.


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner date, because it's important to keep one's strength up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is making her wait, so I am making you wait. I am merely a servant at the pleasure of the King.

I woke up the next morning with a headache and vague sense of satisfaction that I didn't immediately remember the cause of. It wasn't until I was in the shower and look down to see the finger shaped bruises on my thigh that the events of the previous night came flooding back. I laughed. I couldn't help it. I laughed more when I picked up my phone and saw the series of first angry then desperate then apologetic texts from my soon to be ex. It seemed that Gerald really was all I kind of recalled him claiming to be. As was my mysterious stranger. christ, he'd been fantastic. I couldn't remember the last time i'd come like that. Damn whiskey. I could have at least tried for his number.

I sat at my computer do deal with some email. I was on sabbatical, but research goes on and I wanted to at least keep a hand in on a few things. There was an email from the--my--new attorney, and I nearly choked on my coffee. “Gerald” was Gerald Chamberlain, divorce attorney to the rich, famous, and infamous. A “bit of a shark”? The man was a megalodon. 

My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number but I answered, thinking it might be the lawyer. 

It wasn't. “Hello, darling.”

There went that voice again, going straight to my cunt. “Wasn't sure I'd hear from you. Or how, for that matter.”

“Your phone number was on your paperwork,” he said. “Most of which you left in the car I sent you home in. I suspected your memory might not be at its best, so I thought I'd call.” 

“Which brings me to my next question,” I said. “Who, exactly, is calling?”

He chuckled. “Crowley.”

“Crowley? Really?”

“Mum thought herself quite the occultist. And We did touch on this last night. After our delightful,if brief, interlude.”

I bit my lip. “That was quite an interlude.”

“Merely an appetizer, love. Could I interest you in a main course? Tonight, at 8? Dinner. I know an excellent place, if you're game. You can pick up your papers.”

“And what will you pick up?” I wanted to eat him alive.

“Where we left off in the bathroom, preferably,” he said. “But first, wine, food, conversation, all those little niceties we skipped last night.”

“Hmmmm,” I said. “I'm trying to decide if you're a psychopath, a con man, or both.” 

“Neither. Crowley MacLeod. Feel free to look me up. Unless you harbor a distaste for money and ambition, you won’t find much to cause alarm. I suspect you don’t have any issue with the latter--Cambridge at 19, Harvard doctoral program by 23, well done.” He chuckled again. It was as sexy as his voice. “I looked you up already, Ms.--excuse me-- Dr. Andreson. You kept your maiden name professionally, I see.”

“Most people mispronounce it as Anderson,” I said. I was already Googling. 

“I am not most people.”

“Clearly.” The articles were many, and very complimentary. He was a broker and an entrepreneur, self-made, from a poor background. Varied interests, mostly retired but still kept a hand in his various enterprises, blah blah blah. No ex-wives. A few ex-girlfriends, all claiming mutually agreeable breakups. He had detractors, of course, but nothing alarming, even from them. Maybe my luck was starting to change. “All right.”

“I’ll send a car. Dress to impress, Dr. Andreson.”

“Right down to my body lotion, Mr. MacLeod.” I ended the call. 

***

I wasn't kidding about the lotion. I spent a long and luxurious afternoon preparing for dinner. A quick phone call got me into my favorite spa for a body exfoliation, polish, and wax. It had been a while since I've been there and they remarked on that. I only smiled in return. I took a chance by stepping into my local salon and was surprised to discover an opening with one of their best stylists. She touched up my cut and set my hair in loose flowing waves; when she said she had some spare time and offered to do my make up as well, I let her. I left the salon feeling more bold and confident than I had in a very long time. A quick stop at La Perla only added to that.

When I got home, I stood in the closet for a while, debating the current definition of “impress.” I finally decided on simple but sexy, because one can never go wrong with a simple black cocktail dress, when “simple” actually means expensive and perfectly cut. I combined it with a pair of black patent leather ankle strap high heels and the diamond and pearl necklace that had belonged to my grandmother.

I was ready by 7:45. I looked good and I knew it, but I felt more nervous than I’d been since I was a teenager. It was delicious.

The car was prompt and I arrive at the restaurant at 8:15. It was packed, with plenty of people waiting for tables and arguing about their reservations, but the hostess led me straight through the crowded main dining room to a smaller, more intimate side room, where my date stood immediately to greet me. 

He took my hand and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “You're stunning,” he said. “Please. Sit.”

I slid into the comfortably leather booth. It was a half circle, plenty of room for eating while also offering privacy. Once he sat down himself, I said, “That was very gentlemanly.”

“Not at all,” he said, pouring me a glass of wine. “Simply a ploy to get a look at your arse. The dress suits you.”

“Thank you.” I sipped the wine. “Were you already going to have dinner here?”

He looked confused. “Pardon?”

“You asked me to dinner this morning,” I explained. “The waiting list for this place is weeks, if not months, long. Dante’s is the hottest table in town. How did you get a reservation for prime dinner hour in the chef’s tasting room with less than a day’s notice?”

He smiled. “You know this place?”

“I know I couldn’t get a reservation.” I leaned in a bit, touching against his shoulder. “Let a girl in on your secret.”

“I’m afraid it’s not much of a secret,” he said. “I always have a table here. Bit of a silent partner. The chef seems to feel he owes this place to me.”

I sat back again, wine glass in hand. “And does he?”

He shrugged. “In a few years, perhaps. I like to see a significant return on my investments. It’s a rock solid deal. I’ll come out on top.”

“I suspect you usually do.”

He smirked and raised his glass. “I was rather hoping to see you come out on top.”

I touched my glass to his. “ Minus the ‘out’ bit, anyway.”

“Indeed,” he said. “But first, dinner. All those niceties I mentioned earlier. Now you have two options. You can order off the menu or you can let me give the chef a little thrill by allowing him to feed us to his heart’s content. His choices will be artistic and tiny, and I will insist the kitchen supplement them with items that have actual calories in them.”

“Of course,” I said. “We’ll need our strength.”

He smiled. “Oh, I am going to enjoy you.”

I felt a quick rush of heat through my entire body. “After dinner.”

Dinner was sumptuous, to say the least. Food came in waves, and just as Crowley had predicted, much of it was beautiful, even architectural. It was also occasionally molecular, much to Crowley’s annoyance. He rolled his eyes more than once, and seemed genuinely offended when presented with “steak cloud with au jus foam.” He blinked first at the plate, then the rather terrified-looking waiter, and said, “Tell Matthew that if my next plate doesn’t feature a thick slab of actual, top quality, grass-fed beef, I am going to walk into his kitchen and butcher a filet myself.” 

I stifled a laugh as the waiter fled back into the kitchen, and Crowley winked. “I tip exceptionally well. Can I have them bring you anything?” 

“Nothing I can think of,” I said. “But if you think you’re eating that steak alone, you’re wrong.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, love,” he smiled. “Frankly, I can’t wait to share my meat with you.”

I slid a little closer to him. “I'm looking forward to it.” I took his hand and put it high on my thigh, under my dress.

His fingers explored slowly, and a lust-filled expression came over his face as he felt the garters, the tops of the stockings, and finally the lace between my legs. He made a satisfied “mmmm” sound and I bit back a gasp when he slipped a finger beneath the lace for one slow stroke. He pulled his hand back to put the same finger in his mouth and made another satisfied sound. He moved my hair and leaned in to whisper in my ear, “I do appreciate a woman who dresses for the occasion. but patience, pet. There's so much I plan to do to you.” He punctuated the statement with a lingering kiss on my neck that ended in a not entirely gentle bite.

That time I did gasp. As far as I was concerned, dinner couldn't end fast enough.


End file.
